I've seen like four performances, deconstructed the fashion stylings of a New Yorker writer who seemed to not hate my use of the word "skullet." An original member of "A Chorus Line" let us dance around the padded floor, mirrored wall space on the USC campus. She didn't think it was cute when I faked an ankle sprain. Apparently my limp is super convincing.
Almost every meal I've eaten has included ginger and wasabi, including some ramen this afternoon that lashed against my face as I slurped. It was like being at a broth-based car wash. I also had Bahn Mi that knocked my sock holes off. That said: I have never wanted to lodge my face in a log of Velveeta more in my life.
In the past two days, I've had like six hours of sleep. Last night there was booze at this bar set in an alley between two buildings, with a hip hop DJ and heat lamps. Today I found a Japanese book store with a small section of fiction translated into English, including some Ryu Murakami I've never seen at my local booksellers. I'm going to raid that mess before I leave.
I've made a few friends, people I would dig in the real world, too, and also gone hours without saying a word out loud to anyone. I've begun hoarding snack pack sized Fig Newtons and Pringles.